Read Online Swordmistress of Chaos by Robert Holdstock, Angus Wells - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert Holdstock, Angus Wells
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those who understand.’
‘Such as sorcerer-priests?’ Raven demanded. ‘Followers of Kharwhan?’
Spellbinder huddled into his cloak. The wind was blowing stronger now, gusting sand like tiny pellets against their exposed skin, the desert heat sucking their breath from their lungs as though it was drawn away by some torturer mounting heated bellows to their lips.
‘Perhaps,’ was all Raven heard. And:, ‘wait.’
They rode out the dust storm and, four days later, came upon the outer defences of Quell. Closer to Ghorm than to Lyand was the City of the Stone, a palisaded fortress of wood and rock that appeared to cling to the sand like a lamprey to a shark. Where Lyand flowed and swelled from its surroundings, Quell hulked, stark and defensive. Its outlines were harsh, angular; buttresses and watchtowers took the place of domes and cupolas, and where bright metal and glistening paint had decorated Lyand, there Quell boasted black and heavy wood, ebon slate and grey-faced granite. The guard towers of the outer wall were of night-black stone, linked by the sharp-tipped timbers of the encircling wall. Before that wall stood a ring of metal-jutting spikes, high as a tall man might reach with his fingertips, and beyond, those a ditch. Gently-sided around its outer perimeter, it scarped steeply upwards on the wall side, as though designed to lure the unwary downwards, under the fire of the city’s defenders.
It was, Raven thought, a place of defence, forcing itself upon the land rather than living with the country. She liked the look of Quell, if anything, less than Lyand.
To her surprise, Spellbinder skirted the walls, following the perimeter of the ditch for half its circumference. She rode conscious of the men watching from the towers, nervously waiting for the hiss of crossbow bolts or the heavier whistling of a catapult. Yet no sound came except the susurration of the wind, and they moved out of range with no shot fired. Spellbinder appeared sunk in some sombre reverie, riding with shoulders slumped, his body drawn in upon itself and his head hung down. It was as though he let his mount pick its own way, careless of the direction, though she sensed he knew exactly where they were bound, and followed silently, blindly, willing to let the man choose the path.
Soon enough they breasted a ridge of hard-packed dunes and began to descend into the wind-sheltered lee. Spellbinder turned his horse at the foot of the slope, steering it negligently to the east. They rounded the flank of a great sand hill and Raven saw, for the first time, the Temple of the Stone.
Though she had never heard of the place other than in the mutterings of Spellbinder and Mistress Clara, she knew it immediately for what it was. It could, simply, be nothing else.
To the north and the south, the sand ridge disappeared into the shimmering light. To the east and west, a curtain of dancing heat haze spun and flickered from horizon to horizon, spreading a shifting golden glow across the desert. Riding into that aurora, Raven felt abruptly isolated from the world, as though she had crossed some unseen barrier, a mystic curtain that blanked off the rest of the world. Before her rose a squat shape that at first she thought to be a great slab of wind eroded rock, pitched up from the desert floor. On closer examination it proved to be faceted with doorways and windows, its surface iridescent with flickering, changing tones of light. The substance reminded her of the fragment of stone hung in Mistress Clara’s tavern, and she recognised the massive shape for some gigantic natural enclave tunnelled out by men.
It was, somehow, difficult to focus her vision, as though heat and light distorted the contours of the place, and she turned her head from side to side, seeking to distil clarity from the confusion. Dimly, she sensed rather than saw, man-like shapes moving around the entrances, felt something take her bridle, tugging the horse
‘Such as sorcerer-priests?’ Raven demanded. ‘Followers of Kharwhan?’
Spellbinder huddled into his cloak. The wind was blowing stronger now, gusting sand like tiny pellets against their exposed skin, the desert heat sucking their breath from their lungs as though it was drawn away by some torturer mounting heated bellows to their lips.
‘Perhaps,’ was all Raven heard. And:, ‘wait.’
They rode out the dust storm and, four days later, came upon the outer defences of Quell. Closer to Ghorm than to Lyand was the City of the Stone, a palisaded fortress of wood and rock that appeared to cling to the sand like a lamprey to a shark. Where Lyand flowed and swelled from its surroundings, Quell hulked, stark and defensive. Its outlines were harsh, angular; buttresses and watchtowers took the place of domes and cupolas, and where bright metal and glistening paint had decorated Lyand, there Quell boasted black and heavy wood, ebon slate and grey-faced granite. The guard towers of the outer wall were of night-black stone, linked by the sharp-tipped timbers of the encircling wall. Before that wall stood a ring of metal-jutting spikes, high as a tall man might reach with his fingertips, and beyond, those a ditch. Gently-sided around its outer perimeter, it scarped steeply upwards on the wall side, as though designed to lure the unwary downwards, under the fire of the city’s defenders.
It was, Raven thought, a place of defence, forcing itself upon the land rather than living with the country. She liked the look of Quell, if anything, less than Lyand.
To her surprise, Spellbinder skirted the walls, following the perimeter of the ditch for half its circumference. She rode conscious of the men watching from the towers, nervously waiting for the hiss of crossbow bolts or the heavier whistling of a catapult. Yet no sound came except the susurration of the wind, and they moved out of range with no shot fired. Spellbinder appeared sunk in some sombre reverie, riding with shoulders slumped, his body drawn in upon itself and his head hung down. It was as though he let his mount pick its own way, careless of the direction, though she sensed he knew exactly where they were bound, and followed silently, blindly, willing to let the man choose the path.
Soon enough they breasted a ridge of hard-packed dunes and began to descend into the wind-sheltered lee. Spellbinder turned his horse at the foot of the slope, steering it negligently to the east. They rounded the flank of a great sand hill and Raven saw, for the first time, the Temple of the Stone.
Though she had never heard of the place other than in the mutterings of Spellbinder and Mistress Clara, she knew it immediately for what it was. It could, simply, be nothing else.
To the north and the south, the sand ridge disappeared into the shimmering light. To the east and west, a curtain of dancing heat haze spun and flickered from horizon to horizon, spreading a shifting golden glow across the desert. Riding into that aurora, Raven felt abruptly isolated from the world, as though she had crossed some unseen barrier, a mystic curtain that blanked off the rest of the world. Before her rose a squat shape that at first she thought to be a great slab of wind eroded rock, pitched up from the desert floor. On closer examination it proved to be faceted with doorways and windows, its surface iridescent with flickering, changing tones of light. The substance reminded her of the fragment of stone hung in Mistress Clara’s tavern, and she recognised the massive shape for some gigantic natural enclave tunnelled out by men.
It was, somehow, difficult to focus her vision, as though heat and light distorted the contours of the place, and she turned her head from side to side, seeking to distil clarity from the confusion. Dimly, she sensed rather than saw, man-like shapes moving around the entrances, felt something take her bridle, tugging the horse
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